


Lowdown, Dirty Monkey With A Wig On

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: The Bloody Chamber And Other Stories [1]
Category: Constantine (TV), Hellblazer & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon - Comics, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Cruelty to Animals, Gen, generally disturbing, naughty bad magic, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 23:16:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being an account of the first meeting of Messrs. Constantine and Chandler, as related by Mr. John Constantine to Miss. Mary Martin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lowdown, Dirty Monkey With A Wig On

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically a re-telling of the Hellblazer story, "In Another Part Of Hell", by Jamie Delano, which is about, that's right, how John met Chas, using the setting and character dynamics of the television show. Now, I know that if they ever get around to showing us how they met on the show, it won't be like this; it'll be very cool and heroic, and there will be no monkeys or wigs. So, that's why I did this, Dear Reader. You can thank me later. I changed the monkey's name from 'Slag' to 'Slut', because the former is not a term in common usage in the United States. The title of the story comes, of course, from the famous assessment of one Real Housewife of Atlanta of the character of one of her fellows. And you have no idea how long I've been waiting to use that quote in connection to Hellblazer.  
> I am not involved in the production of either Hellblazer or Constantine, and this school is not involved in the production of either Hellblazer or Constantine. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

“The thing about magic is that any cunt can do it-”  
“Hey!”  
“Sorry, darling; the word has a slightly different connotation where I'm from.”  
Zed frowns. “I don't care what kind of connotation it has; just don't use it around me, okay?”  
John clears his throat and continues. “Any tosser can use magic. Many do. Sometimes, they do it in ways they don't mean to, so they don't even notice they're doing it. You go on like that long enough, and the magic starts using you.”  
“What does this have to do with how you and Chas met?”  
“I'm getting there. I'm getting there.” John lights a cigarette. “My first visit to these shores was back in 2000. After liberating myself from my father's roof, I went south, wandered around London for a while, doing odd jobs, working as a stage magician when I could. When I'd saved enough money, I went to New York-”

I'd always wanted to go there. New York. Land of the Velvet Underground- and Patti Smith- and the Ramones. In 2000, it wasn't the same place that had spawned all of them, but it wasn't yet what it would become. There was still a whiff of the old days about it. Being young and naive and not having much in the way of material resources, I couldn't really afford a hotel, so I had to look for alternative accommodations. An ad in a free newspaper brought me to a flat with a room to rent.  
(“This was where Chas lived?”)  
This was where Chas lived, with his mother, and her familiar.  
(“Her familiar?”)  
Her familiar was a monkey called Slut.  
(“Why was she called that?”)  
“Because that's what she is!” Chas' mother laughed, when I asked her that very question.  
(“Now, you say 'monkey'- do you mean, like, a spider monkey...”)  
Slut was a chimpanzee in a blonde wig and a dress.  
(“Oh.”)  
I was young and I was poor, and I needed a room, so I stayed.  
(“Really?”)  
Also, I'll admit it: I was intrigued. It's not every day you see a monkey in a blonde wig drinking beer in front of the telly.  
(“No. It isn't.”)  
I knew that something peculiar was going on, but I didn't know what, yet. I had to investigate.  
(“So, the monkey was... like a person?”)  
Was a person. In a manner of speaking. She just had a monkey's form, behaved somewhat like a monkey, but there was human intelligence and emotion to her. A person's familiar is an extension of themselves; usually, it's a small animal, something inconspicuous, but Chas' mother wasn't what one would call the retiring type.  
(“How did she get a familiar? Don't you have to make a deal with some kind of demon, or something?”)  
That's traditional, but sometimes, all it takes is some truly nasty magic. We tend to think of creative acts as being inherently good things, but you can have a labor of hatred, just as surely as one of love. And Queenie- that's Chas' mum- had been into some bad stuff. It goes back to what I was saying: doing magic is the easy part; the hard bit's controlling it without it controlling you, and ensuring the outcome you want without any of those nasty consequences. Now, being an extension of Queenie's being, she was just like Queenie- only worse. She had all of the nasty bits, but none of the redeeming qualities. Assuming there were any.  
(“Hey, that's Chas' mother you're talking about.”)  
Being a parent is no guarantee of good character. In a lot of cases, the truly decent thing would have been to not bring life into this world at all; having a kid is something done out of spite. Queenie was no a prize, but Slut was all of that distilled into one small, vile package. Between the two of them, Chas didn't have a moment's peace. Aside from my intellectual curiosity, I stayed because I felt sorry for the poor bastard. I wanted to help.  
(“Aw.”)  
Yeah, well, don't make too much of it. Anyone'd want to do something. That monkey followed him everywhere. The smell, alone, was bad enough, but the things she did- she was always making a godawful row, and flinging her-  
(“I get the picture. So, wait, nobody noticed a chimpanzee walking around New York?”)  
You'd be surprised what people will turn a blind eye to, if they don't think they have to do anything about it. Slut wasn't their problem, so they found a way to ignore her. That's magic- it warps reality, and it also warps the way that people experience reality, makes it more or less so. It works with the way the human brain does; exploits our natural tendency to reconcile and seek normality.  
I knew enough to see immediately that there was magic involved, but it was going to take a while to figure out exactly what kind. This was deep stuff, certainly. But I needed to observe. So, I observed, and eventually, I realized what I was dealing with. But what should I do next? Before I even knew what to do, I found myself hesitating.  
(“You felt bad, for Queenie, and the monkey?”)  
No, nothing like that. I was intrigued. I wasn't entirely sure I wanted to end it. Back then, it was easy to get wrapped up in it. Even believing, even knowing what I knew, knowing what I knew was possible, it still took me by surprise. Back then, it was still a lark. Even when it was bad- horrible, rotten from within and stinking to the heavens- magic was still-  
(“Magical.”)  
Well, yes, all right; if you need to be so bloody literal.  
I'd figured it out. I was a bit ambivalent, but I knew I had to do something. So, I came up with a plan that any reasonable, sensible young man would. I was going to seduce the monkey.  
(“What?”)  
I had to seduce the monkey. I had to convince her that I was in love with her.  
(“But why?”)  
Calm down; you're not paying me by the hour. As the actress said to the bishop.  
Seducing a human being is one thing. Seducing a chimpanzee from hell, it turns out, is actually much the same. I had to be really convincing. I paid her compliments; told she was beautiful, that she was a goddess. I bought her lingerie, and chocolates, and booze. I read her poetry- for all that she sat still and stopped shrieking long enough to listen. I mooned around looking miserable when she ignored me. I pretended to cry in my room at night. It took weeks, but I finally had her convinced.  
(“What did Chas think of all this?”)  
He was probably just relieved to not have a monkey in a wig following him every time he left the house.  
Now, I said that I had her convinced, but she continued to spurn my advances. If she'd been more receptive, I don't know how this would have played out.  
(“I guess you were lucky that the monkey was so discriminating.”)  
True. Finally, I told her that I couldn't take it anymore, and that I was going to throw myself in the river, because she didn't love me. So, I went to the river, not sure whether or not she was following, because I couldn't look back; I had to be completely convincing. When I got there, I made a big show of writing out a suicide note, weeping and moaning her name. It was terrible. I didn't know what was going to happen if she hadn't followed me, but I didn't have to guess, because I looked up, and she was there, batting her eyelashes. That's when I did it.  
(“You fucked the monkey?!”)  
No. No. Of course I didn't- Why would you think- I grabbed her by the neck, dragged her to the water, and drowned her. Meanwhile, across town, Queenie went into cardiac arrest, and died instantly. Nothing could have been done.  
(“Did you know that would happen?”)  
What would you do if I said 'yes'?  
(“So, Chas was free?”)  
He was.  
(“But you went back to England?”)  
I did, eventually. New York was too weird for me.  
(“Too weird for you?”)  
Different kind of weird than I like. I missed London.  
(“Do you still miss it?”)  
I think you know the answer to that question.  
(“Yet, here you are.”)  
Yet, here I am.  
(“You came back here, though. Why?”)  
That, love, is a story for another time.


End file.
